


It Takes A Hansa

by jikanet_tanaka



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Gen, most self-indulgent AU youve ever read, stupidest of fluff, unfortunately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-09-27 08:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9992441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jikanet_tanaka/pseuds/jikanet_tanaka
Summary: In a kinder, better world, on a cold winter morning, Maria Barring's child is welcomed to the world by his exhausted mother and his overly giddy auntie Angoulême.Oh, and by his four dads.Overly self-indulgent AU where everybody survives, and Milva's kid gets to be raised by the most epic family of all time.(...Vilgefortz and Leo Bonhart are still dead, tho. Jerks deserve it, after all.)





	1. Mama Milva

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: ...Let's just pretend that Vilgefortz slips down some stairs and breaks his neck before the battle at Stygga Castle, and that a random bolt of lightning strikes Leo Bonhart before he could get his hands on Ciri, hmm?

Snowflakes lazily fell from the sky above Beauclair, fluttering about the frosty air like the freshly shed down of a baby bird. Children giggled as they tried to catch the droplets of ice with their tongues. The adults strolling down the streets watched the little ones with fond eyes, no doubt remembering how they had done the same, not so long ago. Truly, the capital of Toussaint was wondrous at this time of the year.

Still, in a luxurious villa not far away from the ducal palace, a young woman was breaking the quaint beauty of this winter morning by screaming obscenities at the top of her lungs.

"You're doing great, Milva!" Dandelion told his friend as he squeezed her hand. "Keep at it! I'm sure it's almost over!"

The archer replied with a look that would have sent the most battle-hardened of Nilfgaardian soldiers scrambling away in fear. "Shut up, Dandelion. Just shup up the fu— _arghhh! Son of a bitch, that hurt!_ "

On the other side of the bed, a pale looking Angoulême was rocking back and forth on her seat. "That's it," she whined. "I'm never popping out one of these things. Remind me if I ever get maternal in a coupla years, will ya?"

From between Milva's legs came Regis' soft voice. "Dandelion is right, actually." The barber-surgeon lifted his head to offer a soothing smile to Milva—the fact that his face was splattered with blood broke the effect a bit, however. "It won't be long before your little one is here. Stay strong, my friend! I can see the baby's head!"

"Finally!" Milva said in a growl. She then scrunched up her face, a groan of pain filtering from her closed mouth, as she was struck by another contraction.

"You know," Angoulême began, "if someone had told me when I met you lot that this would be where I'd find myself today, I would have called 'em crazy."

A muscle twitched above Milva's right eye. "Well, nine months ago I wouldn't have believed that I'd be giving birth halfway across the world with a goddamn _vampire_ looking up my bloody cu—"

"Speaking of vampire," Dandelion interrupted, "how are you holding up, Regis?"

Again, Regis' face appeared from between Milva's legs. His bushy grey eyebrows were knotted together in a peeved frown. "What are you implying, my dear poet? First, I must remind you that I have vowed to never drink again, and second _—well_ , if you think for one minute that I would be _depraved_ enough to be tempted by the blood currently pouring out of—"

"Shut it!" cried out Milva. "Not another word! That's not something I needed to hear!"

Dandelion pouted, looking quite like a little boy instead of a man nearing his forties. "That's not what I meant and you know it. The four of us took turn keeping Milva company through all of her ordeal, so I was worried for you specifically, Regis. After all, you've been working for twelve hours straight without a moment of rest."

"Where are Geralt and Cahir anyway?" asked Angoulême.

"They've come back, both of them," answered Regis. "They're waiting behind the door. I can smell them."

"You can _smell_ them?"

"Cahir smells like armour polish and blade oil. And Geralt has a distinctive… _musk_ , I might say."

Angoulême let out a bit of hysterical laughter. "A _musk?_ Geralt has a distinctive musk? What's that s'pose to mean?"

"Enough about Geralt's manly stench!" Milva said through grit teeth. Her reprimand was quickly followed by another screamed invective.

"Keep pushing, Milva!" said the barber-surgeon. "You're almost there!"

Milva's back arced in the bed, and her face twisted in pain. She was clutching Dandelion's hand so hard the poor bard's eyes seemed about to pop out of their sockets.

"The baby's here! Push, Milva, push!"

"What do you think I'm doi— _arghhh!_ Dammit!" Milva's blue eyes were full of tears. "It hurts, it hurts, please, I don't… I don't want to _die_ …"

"You're not going to die," Regis said firmly. "I won't allow it."

"You heard the old bloodsucker!" said Angoulême. "Keep going, Auntie!"

With another long scream, Milva threw back her head. Soon, however, another sound filled the whole of the room.

A baby's cries.

Milva's body trembled with long, deep shudders as she heard her child's voice for the first time. Through blurry eyes, she saw Regis standing up, his arms bundled protectively around something she could not discern.

"A boy! A healthy, beautiful baby boy!" Regis announced after he had cleaned up the newborn. He handed the wailing infant over to Milva; a genuine, almost childlike expression of wonder dawned on the vampire's face as he contemplated the first meeting between mother and child.

Milva could not say a word as she gazed at her son's face for the first time. She found herself committing to memory all of his features, all of his little quirks—the small birthmark above his left eye, that tiny button nose, the tuft of pale hair on his head... She was aware that both Dandelion and Angoulême were offering their congratulations, but it was as if she could not hear them. She was solely focused on the little being currently nestled in the crook of her arm.

"We need to cut the umbilical cord," said Regis. "Who would like to do the honour?"

Dandelion's face went from bone-white to green in very short succession. Angoulême, for her part, drew back in horror as if she'd been asked to down a gobletful of toad slime in one go.

The door swung open, and Cahir and Geralt entered the room. The young Nilfgaardian's face broke into a surprisingly tender grin at the sight of Milva holding her newborn son. In contrast, Geralt's expression remained still as stone.

"I'll do it, Maria," said the witcher. He inclined his head toward the archer. "That is, unless you object."

Milva replied by slightly shaking her head. As Geralt proceeded with his task, the others scooted closer to the new mother, save for Regis, who instead remained near the end of the bed, ready to act in case of an emergency.

"Ugh!" said Angoulême. "Why is he covered in that disgusting white stuff? And why is his head so lumpy?"

Cahir rolled his eyes. "Is that the first time you've seen a newborn, Angoulême?"

"Well, _I_ didn't know newborns looked like this!" Dandelion said genially. "I guess you're never too old to learn to learn, eh?"

Milva narrowed her eyes as the now quiet baby clamped his mouth around one of her nipples. "Are you saying my kid is ugly?" she growled playfully.

"What? No, not at all!" protested Angoulême. "He's just… so tiny!"

"It's true," Cahir said. "My nieces and nephews were all bigger at birth."

"Elven bone structure is often very delicate," explained Regis. "Why, it is easy to distinguish a human skeleton from an elf's since—"

Geralt glared at the vampire. The latter coughed and promptly fell silent.

"Oh!" said Angoulême. "Look, his ears are all pointy too!"

"I guess that's all he's ever going to get from his father, eh?" Milva said, a weariness as old as the world weighing down her words. Whoever the young Scoia'tael had been, he was probably dead by now. He had died without ever knowing that he had fathered a little halfbreed on the human woman with whom he had shared one last night of warmth and love.

"That's alright!" Angoulême gave the baby a friendly little poke on the belly. "Who needs a dad, anyway? I didn't have a dad and I turned out fine, did I?"

Milva's face lit up in a fond, but slightly exasperated look. Around the bed, Dandelion, Cahir, Regis and Geralt all returned her mushy expression in their own unique way; the bard was openly crying and sniffing, the knight was misty-eyed, the vampire was beaming proudly, and the witcher was crinkling his eyes in a subtle smile.

"Besides," Angoulême said after a while, "I don't it's true that your lil' bundle of joy will grow up without a dad." She jutted her chin at the four men standing nearby. "I think he's gonna have four of 'em."


	2. Papa Dandelion

Branwyn Barring was the only child in his village who knew how to read. The nine-year-old was short and skinny for his age, with a thick mop of hair that was a shade redder than his mother’s dark blond locks. Most of his features came from her, in fact; the only thing he had inherited from his father was the shape of his ears and a pair of striking hazel eyes.

“What does it say, Bran?” said Bran’s friend Renia, as the former examined their town’s notice board. “Is there anything out of the ordinary?”

“Is there something about a monster?” her younger sister Sabine added. “It’d be great if there was a notice about a monster!”

The third of Bran’s friends, a boy called Radek, grinned widely. “Then, a witcher could come and kill the beast!”

“There’s nothing about a monster,” Bran said after reading all the notices pinned on the old wood panel. “It’s just boring stuff.”

Sabine kicked at a rock. “It’s _always_ boring stuff. Interesting things _never_ happen here.”

She was right, of course. Except for the occasional equestrian contest, the town of Alness was rarely the theatre of unusual events. Bran had been living here for three years now, and the most outlandish thing he’d seen was a case of serial kidnapping concerning farm animals (the culprits had turned out to be a trio of mischievous drunkards who’d been dumb as stumps).

“I wouldn’t want a monster coming around,” Bran eventually said. “People would get hurt.”

“I guess you’re right,” said Sabine. “It just sounds so glamourous in your uncle’s tales…”

“Dandelion’s not really my uncle,” Bran clarified. “He’s… well…” The boy scratched his head, mulling over his answer. Technically, Dandelion was only a friend of his mother Milva, but the man joked so often that he was like a father to Bran that the latter almost believed it to be true.

“Do you think he’ll be coming to Alness soon?” asked Renia. “Oh, I love his song about the elven maiden! I wish he could come here more often!”

“Pff, of course _you’d_ prefer the stupid love story to his tales about the White Wolf!” Radek said. “Or his stories about the Lion Cub of Cintra!”

Bran remained silent while the two of them argued. It was always strange to hear other people refer to the members of his family as if they only existed in myth. To Bran, Geralt and Ciri were just like anybody else. In fact, it was hard to believe sometimes that they had lived through the events depicted in Dandelion’s ballads.

“He might come soon,” Bran said after a while, interrupting his friends’ squabble. “He says the landscapes around here are good inspiration.” Bran’s mother maintained another theory; she believed Dandelion chose to visit Alness as often as he did only because her forested hut happened to be the one place on the continent where he could eat a bit of game meat without having to hunt or pay for it.

Bran’s prediction turned out to be right: three days afterwards, a troupe of mismatched performers arrived in Alness amidst much rejoicing. Their wagons, while old and rickety, boasted bright and bold colours. Despite the dilapidated state of their setup, the dancers and singers were a talented lot. They entertained the whole of Alness for the better part of an afternoon, before joining the villagers in an impromptu celebration in the evening.

To the delight of Bran’s friends, the troupe had been accompanied by a certain troubadour. Dandelion’s unexpected appearance was greeted by loud cheers from the audience. When finally he sang one last, long note, men and women alike were dabbling at their eyes. Bran’s mother had hummed the lyrics under her breath for the length of his performance, but the moment the poet bowed on the scene, prompting applause from all, she only snorted.

As the artists mingled with their public, Dandelion headed toward Bran and his mother, arms extended in greetings.

“Ah, Milva, my favourite misanthrope in the entire world!” the bard all but exclaimed. “And little Bran as well—how good it is to see you both! It’s been far too long!”

“It’s only been two weeks, you dolt,” was Milva’s dry response. “And I doubt I’m your favourite misanthrope: we both have a mutual acquaintance who’s got me beaten.”

“What’s a misanthrope?” asked Bran.

Dandelion laughed out loud. “It’s what Geralt is. And what your mother is, as well—in small amounts, at least,” he clarified as Milva glared at him.

Bran frowned at the inconclusiveness of Dandelion’s answer. Adults were so strange, sometimes.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve gone on a tour,” Milva told Dandelion. “I thought you wanted to focus only on that tavern of yours, nowadays.”

“Oh,” said Dandelion, waving a hand around, “why, yes, most of my attentions are still taken by The Chameleon. Tonight’s representation was, sadly, a one-time only occurrence. The leader of this troupe is a dear friend of mine, a brilliant young man who has just now started to undertake the difficult, but oh-so-rewarding path of an itinerary performer. How could I not help him out and share the wisdom of many years of experience?”

“Wisdom, huh? Not the first word that comes to mind when I think of you, truly.”

“Mama!” protested Bran. “Don’t laugh at him!”

Dandelion laid a hand over his heart in a dramatic gesture. “Ah, my dear boy! Defending my poor poet’s self against the wicked wit of your mother! You’ve always been such a sensitive soul!” He grinned at Bran, waggling his eyebrows. “You probably take after me in that regard.”

Milva gave the bard a light swat behind the head. “Stop filling my son’s brain with such nonsense. Let’s go grab something to eat.”

Before she could turn and leave for the tables that had been set by the villagers outside of the ealdorman’s house, Dandelion reached to tug on her arm.

“Er, I have to admit I rather feel tired,” the bard said, lips twitching in a nervous smile. “It’s been a long day, you see? Could we just go back to your house and eat together, just the three of us?”

Milva’s eyes flicked from the group of villagers happily toasting their guests to the oddly pleading face of Dandelion. She raised a brow and said, not sounding entirely convinced, “Alright. If that’s what you want.”

Bran’s home was located a bit further away from the village, at the edge of the woods. His mother was always greeted warmly by the inhabitants of Alness—her legendary hunting skills had fed more than one hungry stomach, after all—but she still highly valued her privacy. Bran didn’t mind; unlike the rest of his friends, the forest had never scared him. There was something soothing about the smells of pine cones and the ambient noise of the animals prowling the depths of the woodland.

Dandelion seemed to regain a bit of his usual energy as he helped Milva prepare supper. After the three of them had sat down to eat a rather delicious rabbit stew, the bard began to question Bran about his ongoing studies, prompting a blush from the young half-elf.

“Sorry, Dandelion,” Bran said. “I didn’t work on the things you asked me to do. I just, er…”

Again, Dandelion roared in laughter. “There’s not need to apologize, dear boy! I was the same at your age. Ah, the beatings I received while I was at the temple school! But tomorrow we can take a look at your progress. I’ve brought a few new books as well, so you can practise your reading.”

“Really?” Bran said, eyes shining. “Thanks, Dandelion!”

The poet then rubbed his chin in contemplation. “I have to admit I’m wholly unequipped to teach you how to do your sums, however. I am skilled in the way of words, not numbers. Perhaps it would be simply better to enroll you in—”

“The closest schools are in Novigrad,” Milva interrupted. “That’s at least two hours by foot.”

“Well, the two of you are always welcome at The Chameleon,” said Dandelion. “Or if you prefer, Bran can stay with me while you remain in Alness. I happen to know a wonderful teacher: she would gladly look to the boy’s education.”

Bran opened his mouth to reply, but his mother cut him off before he could even speak. “Bran’s already quite busy here,” she said sternly. “He and the other kids look after the animals while the adults are working in the fields.”

“Why, that is rather important work, yes,” conceded Dandelion. “But we must also look to the boy’s future.” He turned to Bran, mouth pinched in an unusually serious manner. “Bran, would you like to go to school? With a proper education, you could even go to the university in Oxenfurt! Would that makes you happy?”

“Oxenfurt?” Bran could almost not believe his ears. “Y-You really think I could?”

“Could he?” Milva said, sounding rather doubtful.

“Of course! Bran’s a smart boy! I’m sure he would be an excellent student.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Milva. “Would they… would they even let him in? I mean…” She let out a sharp noise of frustration and looked at Bran, her expression growing dour.

Dandelion glanced at the young half-elf, his face showing a hint of uneasiness as well. Bran scowled, irritated by their sudden lack of transparency. Really, why were adults so _bizarre?_

“Oh, I see,” Dandelion said quietly. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, if that comes to pass, then I will use all my political clout to overturn their decision. After all, I am still one of their most famous lecturers and contributors. If I ask them to give Bran a place, then they will. Well, that is, if you _do_ want to go, Bran.”

Bran’s cheeks grew pink. “Er, I don’t know. Do you think I should go?”

“It all depends on what you’d like to be,” said Milva.

“Exactly!” Dandelion agreed. “As adults, our only role is to give you the opportunity to fulfill your aspirations. Ultimately, the choice is yours.”

Bran absentmindedly stirred his bowl of stew. For some time now, he’d been nursing a silly dream, one he did not want to voice out loud as of now. “I’ll think about it,” was his mild response.

“There’s no problem with that,” answered Dandelion. Then, he added, somewhat sheepish, “Just… just keep in mind I might be a little busy in the coming months. It’s, er, it’s partly why I proposed to find a tutor to continue on what I’ve been building…”

Milva refilled her mug with more ale. “Why? You planning to do something special with The Chameleon?”

There was a loaded silence. Then, Dandelion all but squeaked, “P-Priscilla is pregnant.”

Milva nearly choked on her drink. Bran, for his part, only smiled from pointy ear to pointy ear.

“Priscilla’s going to have a baby?” he asked the bard. “You’re going to be a dad?”

Dandelion emitted a little whine. “Yes,” he said, his voice still unusually high-pitched. “I’m going to be a father.” In a sudden movement, he reached over to Milva and grabbed her arm. “What the hell should I do, Milva? I can’t be a father! This can’t be happening!”

Milva swatted his hand away. “What do you think, you idiot? There’s only one thing to do. Put on your big boy trousers and raise the kid. There’s no other option.”

“Do… do I look like father material to you?”

“Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t,” Milva said, her voice cold as ice. “That’s beside the point. You’ll learn along the way or it’ll be your kid who will have to deal with the consequences of your immaturity.” She looked askance, and continued in a mutter, “Or at least that’s how it was with me.”

Bran leaned against her. Immediately, Milva brought him closer, draping her arms around him in a strong embrace.

“You’re stronger than I am,” Dandelion protested. “You’ve always been—”

“That’s horseshit, and you know it,” Bran’s mother growled. “You’ve travelled through hell and back and lived to tell the tale. You don’t mind strolling through a war-torn country, but the idea of caring for a baby makes you run for the hills? Don’t make me laugh!”

“N-No, Milva, you don’t understand. I wouldn’t even _dream_ of leaving Priscilla or our child. It’s just…” Dandelion sighed. “I-I’ve made a mess of a lot of important things in my life, and I don’t want to screw this up, too. Because I _will_ certainly screw this up. There’s no doubt.”

“What makes you so sure?” Milva asked. “Last time I checked, you aren’t the one in our group with creepy prophetic dreams.”

For a moment, Bran wondered who she meant. Despite his curiosity, he chose to not press any further, thinking that he could just ask her later.

“I think you’ll make a great dad, Dandelion,” he chimed in. “You taught me to read, remember? And you told me about ancient history and you showed me where all the countries are on a map. That’s not nothing, isn’t it?”

Dandelion nervously swallowed. “Yes, but it’s still not much, really. That’s… just the bare basics of what parenting should be, in fact.”

“It’s still something,” said Milva. “My da taught me to hunt, and that was it. Mostly, he didn’t seem to care much that I existed.” Her face twisted into a sneer. “If I’d been born with something else between the legs, maybe things would have been different. But I wasn’t, and so instead he chose to treat me like _sh_ —crap.”

“What about Priscilla?” added Bran. “She’s so nice and smart. She won’t let you do this on your own, you know?”

“And we’ll be there, too,” Milva completed. She squeezed Bran a little tighter, and the boy giggled in response. “Do you really think we’ll let you bumble your way through fatherhood without butting in when you make a fool out of yourself? _Please!_ I would never deny myself the pleasure…”

Dandelion winced. “Supportive as always, are you?”

“Japes aside,” Milva said, “you were there when I needed you most. I’ll return the favour. It’s the least I can do.”

“I’ll try to help too!” Bran said. “I mean, it’s not that I know much about babies or anything, but…”

For a moment, the bard’s eyes shimmered in the light of the hearth fire. He then coughed and wiped his eyes, sniffing. “I… why, that’s awfully noble of you.” A bit of colour rose to his cheeks. “You… you have my gratitude. Both of you.”

Later, in the middle of the night, Bran found that he could not sleep. He had lent his bed to Dandelion, choosing instead the uncomfortable option of squeezing himself beside his mother on her small cot. Milva was soundly asleep, no doubt exhausted by her busy day. Bran slowly extricated himself from her hold, then went toward the pantry on tiptoes. A low chuckle resounded from behind Bran, stopping him in his tracks.

“Looking for sweets in the middle of the night, hmm?” Dandelion whispered. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell your mother.”

Bran rubbed his eyes, yawning. “I was just feeling a bit hungry, is all,” he replied under his breath. “I dunno why, but I just couldn’t sleep.”

Dandelion sat on Bran’s bed and patted the spot next to him. The boy tottered over to him and plopped down on the hard mattress.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” Dandelion admitted. “What about you? Is something bothering you?”

“Do you really think I could go to school?” Bran said, slumping his shoulders. “Do you think I’m smart enough?”

“Of course! Don’t doubt it for an instant!”

“But doesn’t it cost a lot of money? And what about my mother? I… I can’t just leave her…”

“Money won’t be an issue, don’t worry, I have you covered. As for your mother…” Dandelion paused to send a glance at Milva’s sleeping form at the other end of the room, “Well, she is quite aware of the benefits of a good education. She might have never said it to you out loud, but she wants you to have the choices in life she herself had never been given. I would even say that it’s her deepest, most treasured wish.”

“You think so?” asked Bran.

In response, Dandelion ruffled Bran’s hair. The boy weakly groaned in protest. “Ah, it’s far too complex a topic for a nighttime discussion. Let’s just talk about this later, alright?”

“If you say so,” Bran muttered.

“In the end, after all is said and done, do you want to go, Bran? Would you like to go to school? It could be only for a few days every week, if that’s what you prefer.”

“I…” said Bran. “I think I would. Yeah, I’d like that. That way, I could become, er…”

“Anything you want!” Dandelion replied, his voice rising a bit in his enthusiasm. “You could study the mysteries of natural science! You could unlock the secrets of our distant past! Why, you could even be a dullard like Regis and choose to learn the medical arts… why would you choose that option, I do not know, but—”

“I could become a poet, just like you,” Bran suggested, half in jest.

Dandelion wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. “Yes, of course! You’d take the world by storm with the dazzling prowess of your quill, I’m sure. Just as your humble interlocutor did.”

From Milva’s bed came a soft snort. Bran wondered if he had imagined the noise; it seemed as if Dandelion himself hadn’t heard anything.

“Still, I’m sure you have your own ambitions,” Dandelion said after a while. “What would you like to be, Bran?”

Bran felt his cheeks heating up in the darkness. “If I tell you… do you promise you won’t laugh at me?”

Dandelion gave another little laugh. “Of course I won’t.”

“When I was little, I wanted to become a _mage_.”

Even in the dimness of the moonlight, Bran could see the bewilderment on Dandelion’s face. “Really _?_ You wanted to learn magic?”

Bran hung down his head. “Uh-huh,” he mumbled. “It was a stupid idea, I know.”

“No, no, not necessarily,” said Dandelion. “Only, well, from what I understand, merely a few people are actually born with the potential to use magic.”

“That’s what Geralt told me too,” said Bran. “That’s why I said it was stupid of me to think it coulda been possible.”

Dandelion ran a hand alongside his jaw. “You could always be tested. We should ask Triss or Yennefer if there’s anything they can do to help. They’re not exactly bosom buddies with the people at Ban Ard, but I’m sure they would know what to do.”

“I don’t think it’ll work out,” Bran said, managing a feeble smile, “but thanks anyway, Dandelion.”

“I remember that phase,” Milva’s muffled voice came from the other side of the room. Her face peered out of her bedsheets. “The _wizard_ phase. You went around everywhere pretending that you were doing your chores with magic. Cahir even made you a little wand. We didn’t tell you back then, but we all found it rather _adorable_.”

“ _Mama!_ ” Bran protested.

“Oh, yes,” said Dandelion, “I remember now. It was a little after you two came back from Toussaint, right? Just after the end of the war?”

“Not you too, Dandelion!” In the gloom, Bran could see that the two adults were exchanging smirks. “You promised you wouldn’t laugh!”

His indignant words were only met by chuckles from both Milva and Dandelion. A sulking Bran evaded their amused gazes, choosing instead to ignore them and hop off the bed in search of a little something to eat.

As Bran rummaged through the pantry, he heard Milva and Dandelion speaking in hushed tones from the other room. Their voices were just loud enough so he could make out their words.

“I still can’t believe that you finally caved in and settled down like a proper family man,” Bran’s mother was saying. “You’ve become soft in your old years, poet.”

“Oh,” Dandelion answered, “it’s not exactly how you think. Priscilla is… surprisingly open. It’s, er… well, as long as I come back to her and she comes back to me, we’ve decided that, er…”

Milva made a choked sound. “I… see…” After an awkward pause, she added, “Well, as long as the both of you act like reasonable adults.”

“Reasonable, yes, that’s all me,” Dandelion said in a wheeze.

“Heh,” said Milva. “Once upon a time, I would have never associated that word with you, but now... just look at how you’ve handled Bran a few moments ago. Not a good parent, my arse. You’ll be fine once you stop being so craven.”

“That was rather too mean-spirited to serve as a genuine compliment, but thank you for the vote of confidence, Milva.”

Bran grabbed a few dried fruits from the cupboard, smiling in the near darkness as he heard the heartfelt note in Dandelion’s voice.

“I’m serious,” Milva continued. “Your kid will be lucky to have you. Just…” She sighed and continued in a mutter so low Bran could barely hear it, “just as Bran has been lucky...”

There was no immediate response from Dandelion. Then the bard began to laugh—softly, at first, but his chuckles soon grew in intensity. Bran thought that he sounded… a bit unhinged, in fact.

“I’d never thought I’d see it!” Dandelion said a little breathlessly. “Under all that bark, the soft, beautiful, _loving_ heart of a moth— _oof!_ ”

Bran came back into the room only to see his mother throwing a pillow at Dandelion’s face.

“Oh, shut it, you limerick-spouting piece of crap,” Milva said, voice thick with affection.


	3. Tad Cahir

“Mama! _Mama!_ ” Bran exclaimed as he ran up the path to his home.

Milva had been making arrows outside their modest dwelling. She raised her head, giving her son a quizzical look.

“Someone’s coming!” Bran explained. “Someone on a horse!”

“What do they look like?”

“Er, they’re wearing some black leather armour? And they’ve got a cloak, I couldn’t see their face...”

“Black armour, eh?” A corner of Milva’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “Might be a certain someone we know…”

Bran’s eyes grew huge. He’d had a hunch at the sight of the mysterious rider, and his mother’s words only confirmed his theory. “Cahir? You think it’s Cahir?”

“Why don’t you go and see?”

Bran chuckled, evading Milva’s hand as she tried to mess up his hair. Still grinning, the boy rushed toward the man in the black armour.

The rider removed his hood as he noticed Bran barreling toward him. He was in his early thirties, with handsome features and jet-black hair. Bran picked up the pace, happily crying out, “Cahir! You’re back!”

The knight stopped to climb down his horse. Immediately, Bran all but jumped into his arms.

Cahir let out a little _‘oof!_ ’ as he patted the child’s red-blond head. “Why, it seems I have a welcoming committee!” His smile only grew as he noticed that Milva was also approaching.

The archer inclined her head. “Cahir,” was her amused greeting.

“Cahir, I’ve missed you!” said Bran. He extricated himself from the knight’s hold and asked, eyes shining. “Did you bring me anything from your travels?”

Milva put her hands on her hips, scowling at her son. “You little imp! We haven’t seen him for a year and _that’s_ the first thing you ask him?”

“Don’t fret, Milva,” Cahir said. “I was the same at his age.” He rummaged through his saddle bags, grabbing a mysterious item wrapped in a handkerchief. “I bought this in Cintra. Do you know where Cintra is?”

“It’s south of Redenia and Temeria!” said Bran. “Dandelion told me. He showed me on a map where all the different countries are.”

“That’s good. It won't be long before you can go and have your own adventures, then.”

Cahir handed his gift over to Bran. The boy eagerly unwrapped the present, finding a wooden figurine of a knight ahorse a noble destrier. The blue and gold paint was peeling off, and the tip of the rider’s lance was broken, showing that the toy had lived a storied life.

Bran inspected the little figure with a grin. “Thanks, Cahir! I don’t recognize his coat of arms, though.”

“Did Dandelion teach you national emblems as well?” said Cahir.

“He did,” answered Bran, “but I’ve forgotten most of ‘em.”

Milva looked closer at the little figure’s shield. “Golden lions on blue. Can’t say I know this one.”

“It’s the royal emblem of Cintra,” explained Cahir. “Or at least, it was, before the war…”

Milva snorted and locked Bran into a tight hug. “Then, this thing might be even older than you, lil’ scamp.”

A grousing Bran wriggled out of her embrace, and Milva snickered in response. Still, despite the light-heartedness of the situation, a shadow fell over Cahir’s face. Something about the little wooden knight—no, something about _Cintra_ —was making him very sad, it seemed. Bran wondered why.

“Let’s get you back home,” Milva said after a while. “You must be famished.”

“I’m fine, actually. You must forgive me for imposing my presence on—”

“Oh, shut up, Nilfgaardian. You’re practically family.”

Cahir smiled, a faint blush touching his cheeks. “If you say so, Milva. And I’m not Nilfgaardian—you should have learned that by now.”

As they guided Cahir’s horse up the forested path, Bran asked about the knight’s travels. It had been so long since he’d seen Cahir, and Bran was itching to hear about all the wondrous places the man had visited. Cahir, of course, was not as good a storyteller as Dandelion, but he did his best trying to depict the sights he’d seen. He was a more expressive narrator than Geralt, at least.

Despite Milva’s insistence, Cahir declined the food she offered him, saying that he had already eaten on the way to Alness. Bran, for his part, went inside the house to place his new present on the shelf above his bed. A few of his toys had been bought on Cahir’s travels, but in some cases, the knight himself had carved the figurines out of wood. The rest of Bran’s precious collection were gifts from Dettlaff, Regis’ quiet and taciturn companion. Bran had always found him a bit frightening, but other than Geralt, the blue-eyed vampire was the one who made Regis smile the most; for this reason, Bran had chosen to like him despite his initial misgivings.

Bran then ran out of the house to join his mother and Cahir. The two of them were swapping stories while Milva worked on her arrows. At the sight of Bran, Cahir stood up, holding in his hands another long object wrapped in cloth. Bran’s brows furrowed in curiosity and anticipation.

Cahir unwrapped the item, revealing a beaten-up wooden sword. Bran stared at the weapon with his mouth hanging open in an unsaid question. As reply, Cahir only threw the training blade over to him with a slight grin.

“I also found this on my travels,” Cahir explained as a speechless Bran inspected the sword. “I remember how happy I was when I got my first blade…” For a moment, he seemed lost in memories; a sort of melancholic fondness lightened his features. “I was just a little younger than you. I had just become a page—the first step in my journey to become a knight.”

Bran mimicked some of the stances he’d observed from Cahir and Ciri, then said, grinning, “How was it? Being a page and a squire? Was it hard?”

Cahir scratched the back of his head in a sheepish manner. “It was, er, _gruesome_ , in a way. Squiring is tedious and unrewarding work. They often leave out that part in songs about chivalric deeds.”

“One of my friends wants to become a soldier,” Bran said, thinking of Radek, “but his parents are against it. They say he’s needed on the farm.” His friend Sabine also wished to learn to fight, but her own parents had just laughed in her face when she’d broached the subject. Bran had been infuriated on her behalf.

“Your friend’s parents are wise,” Milva said dryly. “Better to be a farmer than an indentured butcher.”

Cahir’s blue gaze clouded again. Once more, he seemed to be anywhere but here.

“Cahir…?” Bran said softly, unnerved by the man’s sudden stillness. He looked down at his wooden sword, feeling strangely sick to his stomach for some reason. All the joy he’d gotten from his new gift soured, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “Are you alright, Cahir?”

Cahir startled a little, blinking. “I-I am, truly,” he finally answered. Seeing Bran’s less-than-convinced expression, he crouched down to the boy’s eye level and offered him a weak smile. “How about I teach you the basics, then? Would you like that?”

Bran glanced at his mother, frowning. She gave a shrug.

“I’m the one who asked him to be your tutor, actually,” said Milva.

“I thought you didn’t like soldiers?” said Bran.

“I don’t like soldiers, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to learn how to defend yourself. Just don’t make a career out of it.”

Bran flushed red, responding with a nervous chuckle. Many times he’d followed his mother on her hunts—and always he had burst into tears whenever the light had started to fade from the eyes of the poor animal who’d been unlucky enough to fall prey to her arrows. “I don’t think I will, actually,” he said meekly.

“Good,” said Milva. “First lesson learned.”

Cahir grabbed another training sword and walked up a few paces in front of Bran. “Indeed. Take it to heart.”

Bran shuffled a bit on his feet and nodded. He wondered why his mother and Cahir were so against the idea of him becoming a soldier. There were so many wondrous ballads about gallant knights performing feats of valour for king and country. It couldn’t be all that bad… could it?

“Wait!” he then told Cahir. “Could I go down in the village first? I think my friends would like to learn a bit of swordplay too. That is, er, if it’s not too much of a bother…”

Cahir seemed a bit surprised, but not entirely against the idea. “Of course, it isn’t. Go on, your mother and I will wait here for you.”

A few moments later, and Bran was back, followed by an over-enthusiastic Radek and Sabine. The latter’s sister, Renia, had also tagged along, even though she herself was rather lukewarm at the prospect of learning how to fence.

Still, it did not take long for her to change her mind. Cahir was a superb teacher, and soon all of Bran’s friends were smiling widely as they lunged at him in turns, eager to land a blow. None of the children managed this feat, however, although Sabine came perilously close. In the sky, the sun described a perfect arc across the pure blue, before finally making its descent as Cahir announced the end of his lesson. By then, Milva had gone into the forest to see if any unlucky woodland critter had wandered into the traps she’d set up in the early morning. Not long after, Bran’s friends also left for the village, giving profuse thanks to a slightly blushing Cahir as they scampered down the dirty path leading to Alness.

Bran was thus left alone with the black-clad knight as the setting sun began to cast its purplish gloom upon the horizon. The boy was secretly relieved that the lesson was finally over. Throughout the training session, it had become quite evident that he was the least talented out of Cahir’s new students. No matter how much the latter had explained to him the finer points of a strong stance and the advantages of a good sword grip, Bran had been incapable of putting his teachings into practise. And when he had come face-to-face with a suddenly grim-faced Cahir in what was supposed to be a mock battle, he’d felt his legs turn to mush. Only Sabine and Radek’s encouragement (or rather, their almost scornful laughter) had been enough to prompt Bran to mount an (ultimately hopeless) attack. It was a good thing, then, that Bran had all but promised his mother he would never become a warrior. Clearly, he had been born without the guts for this line of work.

The shame of it all hurt like a hornet’s sting, however.

Turning his face away to hide the angry tears now filling his eyes, Bran mumbled to Cahir that he was going to draw some water from the well. As he neared his destination, the boy began to sniffle more loudly, a knot forming in his throat. Bran struggled to pull the bucket back to the surface. His stuffy nose and puffy eyes made his head heavy and painful, and his arms now sported a couple of large, darkening bruises. Still, Bran took comfort in the fact that he was finally alone. Crying in front of other people was something he _loathed_ , and crying in front of Cahir of all people was an even more sickening notion. Cahir used to be a _knight_ , someone who was brave and kind and strong, just like the heroes and heroines of Dandelion’s tales.

Just like Geralt and Ciri and Milva and everyone else in Bran’s family…

When Bran came back with his bucketful of water, his eyes now dry, Cahir was chopping some firewood. The latter paused to wipe his brow, offering Bran a slight nod in gratitude. The two of them sat down to drink with cupped hands, Bran letting out a sigh of contentment as he felt the refreshingly coolness of the liquid on his lips.

“Thank you, Bran,” said Cahir. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

“You’re welcome,” replied Bran. “I thought you might have gone thirsty. I know _I_ was. For a while, I felt like my throat was on fire!”

They continued to sip their water in silence for a while. After drinking his full, Bran then flopped down on his back with a yawn, relishing in the scent of summer flowers tickling his nose.

Cahir appeared oddly amused, for some reason. “Well, _someone_ seems a little worn out,” he said to Bran. “You did good, Bran. You’re a good student.”

Despite all of his efforts to hide his discontentment, Bran found himself scowling. “If you say so…”

“You seem… unsure. What is troubling you?”

“I’m not really cut out for this sort of things, am I? Fighting, I mean.” Bran knew it was all childish, but the disappointment still left a sour taste in his mouth. Every subject in school had come so easily to him…

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Cahir. “Perhaps you should be not so hard on yourself.”

“Maybe,” Bran answered, slightly dejected. “I still think I’d be horrible in a real fight.”

Cahir’s smile dissipated. “If I do my job correctly, then by the Great Sun I hope it means you will never find yourself in a real fight.”

There was something alarming in the violent way he had spat out these words. Bran peered at him from out the corner of his eye, worry settling on his young features.

Cahir pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “I am sorry. I did not mean to raise my voice at you, Bran.”

The boy bit down his lip. “Is there something wrong, Cahir? Was it something I said?”

“No, no, you did nothing wrong,” said Cahir. “I only remembered something from my childhood. Something I was taught as a boy.”

“Was it something bad?”

Cahir was silent for a moment. Then, in a soft, disimpassioned voice he said, “It all began after the eldest of my two brothers was killed.”

Bran sat up, mouth hanging open in dismay. “Your brother died?” His stomach was clenching painfully at the thought. He didn’t even know that Cahir had brothers!

“My brother Aillil had just been killed fighting insurgents in Nazair,” Cahir continued, as if he had not heard Bran’s interruption, “I was so little, I barely remember him. I barely _knew_ him. But my mother, she asked of me… she asked of me to learn to _hate_. She wanted me to grow up and kill my family's enemies.”

Bran could not find the words to respond to such a declaration. He only hugged his knees, staring at Cahir with wide, anxious eyes.

“I did not understand why I had to hate people I had never met, but I did not question my mother. In her grief, she no longer smiled nor laughed—and my child self longed to see her smile or hear her laughter again. So I let my hatred grow as I picked up a sword for the first time. And thus I came to believe that the only good Nordling was a dead one.”

Again, Bran’s eyes filled with water. Cahir’s face was a mask of cold detachment. Not once he had looked in Bran’s direction.

“So you hate us?” Bran said in a little voice. “You hate Nordlings like me and my mum and everybody else?”

“What…?” Cahir said, almost as if waking from a dream. “No, of course not! I thought I did, when I was younger. I learned the truth the hard way, to my sorrow. To the sorrow of many people, in fact.”

“What happened?” Bran almost did not want to know the answer.

“Cintra happened,” said Cahir. “Nilfgaard invaded Cintra. My family was so proud that I had been sent to fight for the glory of the Emperor. And, for a while, so… so was I.”

“And?” Bran prompted.

Instead of replying, Cahir stared at Bran, his blue eyes aflame with a sudden and unsettling intensity. “Did someone ever tell you what happened to Ciri’s family?” he said abruptly. “Her birth family, I mean?”

Bran shook his head ever so slightly.

“They were slaughtered.” Bran’s eyes widened even more. “In the massacre at Cintra. Her grandmother was the queen—Calanthe, the Lioness of Cintra, as they called her. A formidable woman, in all accounts. She preferred to take her own life rather than to allow herself to fall into the hands of her most hated foes.” Disgust and self-hatred tinted each of Cahir’s words. “Ciri was heir to the throne. She had to flee for her life while her entire world crumbled around her. I… I chanced upon her in the ruins of the Cintran capital…”

Bran said nothing. The horror of Cahir’s tale chilled him to the bones, yet he wished for nothing more than to hear the end of the knight’s story. How come no one had ever told him about this dreadful part of his family’s history? How come he’d been so _ignorant_ of this whole sordid affair?

“She was just a child, barely older than you. And I was only an adolescent—an arrogant, weak-willed adolescent who was imbued by the supposed grandeur of the task I had been given. And in the chaos of it all I met Ciri’s gaze, and suddenly, it all came unraveling, this farce, this charade.” Cahir’s voice became raspier as he continued. “Suddenly, I realized that this little girl would grow up to hate me as much as I hated the Nazairian rebels who had killed my elder brother.”

“Oh,” was all Bran could say.

“And yet later came a moment when she could have slain me… yet she did not. Ciri let me live even though she had every right to wish for my death. She broke the cycle of hatred.” Cahir’s cheeks coloured a little. “For this reason, I left everything behind to pledge myself to her and Geralt. After all, the gift of mercy is not one that is easily repaid.”

A weak smile managed to form on Bran’s lips. Warmth pooled in his chest as he thought of the ashen-haired witcheress—of her toothy grins and mischievous green eyes. Oh, the snowball fights they would start whenever she visited Alness on her way to Kaer Morhen! Every kid in the village would join in, turning a mere scuffle in all-out war!

Cahir must have noticed Bran’s expression, for his features softened as well. “She’s something else, isn’t she?” he commented. “Ciri, I mean.” His voice sounded a little funny, almost as if he struggled to choose the correct words to speak of her.

Bran nodded enthusiastically, wiping away the last of his tears. “She is. I do miss her, though. I hope she’s doing well on her travels.”

“I’m sure she is,” said Cahir. Now, he was really blushing, his face turning a bright shade of crimson. Bran found it really odd. Cahir always acted so strangely whenever the subject of Ciri came up. Once, Bran had tried to ask his mother about the reason behind the knight’s peculiar behaviour, and Milva had only burst into uncontrollable laughter in response.

Cahir then grew serious, solemn even. “So, do you understand now what your mother and I want for you? I would not have you make the same mistakes as I did. I would not have you grow up learning how to hate. I would teach you to fight… but not how to be a soldier.”

Bran nodded. The image of Ciri—strong, brave Ciri who laughed so easily, so freely—as a terrified child clung to the back of his mind. It all seemed so wrong, somehow. “I understand.”

“Good,” Cahir said simply.

Silence followed the knight’s one-worded assertion. Then, Bran began timidly, “Er, when you say you left everything behind, do you mean, well, _everything?_ Including your family?”

“Yes,” said Cahir. “I haven’t seen my parents and siblings in over ten years. I haven’t heard from them since. I don’t even know if they are aware that I’m still alive...”

“That’s horrible,” Bran whispered.

Cahir shrugged. “I’m a disgrace to the Nilfgaardian army. I could not show my face back home even if I wanted to. There’s no looking back for me.”

“I… I didn’t know that…”

“You didn’t need to. In any case, I’m still alive, which is a better prospect than what I’d hoped for when I chose to desert my country.” Cahir's smile, while feeble, appeared genuine. “So my situation is not as dire as it sounds.”

Bran looked up at him, his eyes a little bright. “I guess so. And you got me and my mum… she doesn’t want to say it out loud, but she likes you a lot. I know she’d let you stay as long as you like, if that’s what you need. I mean, it’s not much, but—”

Cahir’s gaze lit up as well. “It’s enough, Bran. It’s well enough.”


	4. Apa Regis

Bran had almost grown to hate the city of Novigrad.

He had spent his early years living on the outskirts of Beauclair, the capital of Toussaint. Often he had accompanied his mother when she had gone to the city to sell furs and game meat. Despite these frequent visits, Bran remembered little about his birthplace, except for a vague memory of warmth and light.

In contrast, the moment Bran set foot in Novigrad he’d been assaulted by an indescribable stench and the cruel stares of the people around him. In Beauclair, no one looked so much twice at the shape of Bran’s ears. Here, it seemed as if it was all they could see whenever they set their sights on him.

For this reason, whenever Bran went to Novigrad, he had taken to wearing a green velvet hat; the piece of clothing had been a gift from Dandelion from when the boy had started school. Novigrad had grown much more bearable then. It still stank like an open sewer, and the drunkards prowling the streets at every waking hour still bellowed a little too loudly for his tastes, but at least Bran felt safe now—with his ears hidden, he was just a normal human boy, one unremarkable face among hundreds.

Other than the small school in which Dandelion had enrolled Bran, the marketplace in Hierarch Square was Bran’s favourite place in the city. The merchants at their stalls were always kind to him and his mother (or at least, they were unless they became aware of Bran’s nonhuman parentage), and their wares offered tantalizing glimpses of the great world beyond Novigrad’s walls—gleaming blades from the dwarven forges at Mahakam, lovely baubles from northern Povir, textiles from faraway Toussaint… sometimes, it was all so much that Bran did not know where to direct his gaze. His mother would then gently chide him, reminding her son how important it was that he stayed close to her while they made their way amidst the chaotic throngs of customers and shopkeepers.

Which was why Bran was currently on the verge of a panic attack, now that he was looking through the dense crowd of Hierarch Square without seeing a hint of his mother’s long, telltale braid.

He had taken his attention off Milva for a mere _second_. Amidst the boisterous cacophony of the marketplace, Bran had heard a sound that had attracted his attention: the cheerful chirps of a couple of birds. He’d looked to his right and found a family of swallows nested in the crook of a roof. Grinning, Bran had stopped to get a clearer look; it wasn’t often that he stumbled upon a critter inside the walls of Novigrad that wasn’t a mangy feral cat or a big dirty rat.

Of course, now that he had lost his mother amidst this horde of strangers, Bran was not so delighted.

With both hands, Bran jammed his hat on his head a little tighter, sending wary looks to his surroundings. He let out a little whimper at the worryingly large number of unfamiliar faces staring back at him. The boy picked up the pace, his eyes darting right and left rapidly as he tried to find Milva in the dense crowd.

Bran only managed to ram headfirst into someone small and slight, sending the two of them barreling to the ground. Bran grabbed his head, groaning as he tried to catch his breath. Cracking one eye open, he looked at the unfortunate soul he’d inadvertently pushed on the dirty cobblestones. It was a girl about his age, and her expression promised nothing peaceful.

“You…” she said venomously. “Look at where you go, you clumsy oaf!”

“S-Sorry,” Bran mumbled, not even meeting her eyes. In the scuffle, his hat had fallen off, and Bran wanted nothing more than to find it before anyone could notice the shape of his ears.

“You’ve ruined my dress!” the girl screeched. “It’s full of mud!”

“I said I’m sorry!” Bran repeated a little more forcefully, crawling on all four as he searched for his beret.

A group of four boys soon surrounded him. One of them—the tallest and most probably the oldest—reached for Bran, snatching him by the arm.

“Hey, you!” he shouted at Bran, spittle flying from his mouth. “My sister’s talking to you! When you’re apologizing to someone, the least you could do is to look them in the eye!”

Bran wrestled himself out of the boy’s grasp. His hat, he had to find his hat, and get out of here before somebody realized—

“Oi! Denise, look at his ears!” another boy said. “He’s an elf!”

“An elf!” the girl called Denise repeated. “What’s an elf doing here?”

“I… I…” stammered Bran.

The passersby halted in their tracks, the stall-keepers stopped clamouring for the attentions of potential clients. All eyes seemed fixed on Bran. His cheeks grew hot with embarrassment under their scrutiny. The boy ran his hand on the cobblestones behind him, his heart giving a jolt as he felt something made of velvet under his fingertips. In a flurry of movements, Bran grabbed the hat and took to his feet, not even stopping to give a last backward glance.

It soon proved to be a terrible mistake. With a slew of loud curses, the five children took Bran in pursue. Frightened out of his mind, he tried to run faster, a difficult task considering just how narrow and crowded the streets of Novigrad happened to be.

Eventually, Bran turned a corner and came to a screeching halt; in his rotten luck, he’d reached a dead end. Heart hammering in his ribcage, the boy looked at the piece of clothing he clutched in his hand. Only now did Bran understand why the other children had decided to chase him.

The soft velvet fabric was dyed a deep purple. By mistake, Bran had grabbed the girl’s hat.

Before he could consider a course of action, the tallest of the boys caught up to him. Bran whirled on his heel, opening his mouth to offer another apology, only to earn himself a punch in the jaw for all his trouble.

Bran fell like a stone, the force of the blow making him see stars. The other boy hoisted him up by the collar in order to strike him again and again. Dazed, Bran toppled to the cold, hard ground once more. His ears were ringing, and a revolting, metallic taste filled his mouth—blood, Bran dimly realized. With a sneer, his assailant finally snatched the hat from his hands.

“That’s what you get for stealing from my sister, you knife-eared freak!” the boy spat. The other children sniggered in response.

“What did you expect, Frank?” Denise said to her brother. “He’s an elf. They’re a slippery sort by nature. That’s what Pa says.”

“Go back to the stinky hole you came from!” another boy yelled. “You’re not welcome here!”

Bran staggered to his feet despite the pain. “I’m not an elf! My mother’s a human!”

The boy named Frank leered at Bran. “Is that so? Then, it’s even worse! Your mum’s a whore who opened her legs to an elf!” Again, his declaration was followed by laughter from the members of his little gang.

Bran saw red. He had not understood what the boy had meant, not truly, but the condescension in his tone was unmistakable. With a howl of rage, he launched himself at Frank. Bran did not care that he was clearly outmatched; he punched and kicked and clawed at his opponent, ignoring the little voice of reason that told him to make a run for it. In a matter of seconds, Bran was flat on his back again, with the sole of Frank’s foot firmly planted on his throat. Two of the boy’s friends went to hold Bran down as the latter began to suffocate under the pressure of Frank’s boot.

“Stop it!” said the fourth boy, the only one who had not joined the fight. “You’re choking him!”

“Shut up, Piers!” bellowed the girl.

“This is… this is getting out of hand! I’m… I’m going to get an adult!”

From out of the corner of his eye, Bran could see that the boy was rushing out of the alleyway, to his friends’ boos and jeers. Frank, for his part, never took his eyes away from his victim. His smile grew and grew as he pressed down Bran’s throat; he thrashed under the weight of his tormentor’s boot and tried to cry out for help, but his awareness was dimming, every conscious thought ebbing out of his mind bit by bit _…_

Then suddenly, a tall figure was holding Frank by the scruff of the neck, lifting the boy into the air with one hand as if he weighted absolutely nothing. The other children screamed as they backed away, only to clumsily fall on their behinds in their attempt to run. Bran hacked and coughed, tears prickling at his eyes. A pungent smell—the mixed scents of basil, sage and anise, bizarrely enough—floated up to his nose. Bran looked up, finally discerning the features of his savior; he was an older gentlemen who happened to sport well-groomed side whiskers and a rather formidable nose.

“R-Regis!” Bran said between wheezes.

The barber-surgeon offered no reply. His eyes seemed darker than usual, the black irises devouring the sunlight like an all-consuming abyss. Bran’s tormentors could not move, could not speak; they were pinned down to their spot by the sheer sense of icy wrath radiating from Regis. Bran himself could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. An invisible force appeared to have sucked out all of the ambient heat in the alleyway. Shuddering, Bran let out a little whine as he dragged himself away from Regis.

It was as if a spell had been broken. Regis drew in a sharp breath, his gaze snapping toward Bran. He opened his hand, and the boy named Frank tumbled in the dirt. The bully remained prostate on the ground, much like the rest of his companions, as the barber-surgeon hurried to help Bran to his feet. To the boy’s great relief, Regis’ dark eyes had regained their usual warmth.

“Are… are you alright, lad?” the vampire asked, crouching down to Bran’s eye level. His voice was laden with an unusual hint of fright. “How badly are you hurt?”

“I-I’m fine,” Bran said with a sniff. “I… I feel a bit dizzy…”

“I see,” said Regis. “We must get you somewhere safe so you can rest, then.”

“H-How did you know I was here?” asked Bran.

Regis smiled thinly. “I chanced upon Milva in the marketplace as she was looking for you. We agreed that splitting up would make our search easier. The people I interrogated told me they had seen a boy fitting your description running from a few other children.” He sent a pointed glare to the youths in question; some of them, including Frank, had been trying to crawl away. At the sight of the quiet fury etched on Regis’ features, the snivelling lot stayed put.

From the other end of the alleyway, a boy and a man were running toward Bran and Regis. Frank and his sister wobbled back to their feet, simultaneously calling out, “ _Pa!_ ”

“What’s the meaning of this?” the man said as he laid eyes on his dirtied, tearful children. “What the hell did you do to my son and daughter?”

Regis raised a hand in a comforting gesture. “Let’s remain calm, my good sir. We should hear the children’s testimonies before acting in a rash manner—”

“The halfbreed pushed me in the mud and stole my hat!” the girl shrilled, cutting off Regis.

“Yeah!” one of the boys said. “We chased ‘im here, but then he jumped on Frank like a maniac!”

“That’s not true!” Bran said. “He hit me first! And I didn’t mean to steal your daughter’s hat! It was a mistake, I was just trying to—”

“How are we supposed to know if the lad is telling the truth?” Frank and Denise’s father said. “It’s his word against the word of the other children.”

“W-Well, s-sir, actually he’s—” mumbled the boy named Piers. Before he could say more, however, Denise stomped on his foot; with a wince, Piers fell silent.

“I know Bran very well,” answered Regis. He put a protective arm around the boy’s shoulders. “He is a kind and well-mannered child. It would be highly irregular for him to—”

The man interrupted him with a scoff. “Wait, I know you! You’re that barber-surgeon who lives near the Golden Sturgeon! My wife buys her ointments and poultices from you.” He glanced down at Bran, then looked back at Regis with a quirked brow, as if he didn’t quite understand how there could be a connection between the two of them.

Denise tugged at her father’s sleeve. “Papa, that man frightens me!”

“He appeared out of nowhere and just started shaking Frank like a ragdoll!” added another boy.

“No, he didn’t!” cried out Bran. “He just pulled him off me! Regis wouldn’t hurt anyone!”

“Your son had been busy strangling Bran when I arrived on the premises,” Regis said through grit teeth. “I intervened with the intent of ensuring my own boy’s safety. I admit I might have acted a bit harshly, and for this, I apologize—”

“A bit harshly?” the man said incredulously. “Children acted like children, and your response to this is to throw away all human decency and attack a poor defenceless boy?” He turned up his nose. “Besides, if your lad hadn’t provoked the others, then all of this wouldn’t have happened.”

“I didn’t want to cause a fight!” Bran argued. “I tried to apologize, but they all started to say nasty things about elves, and then they called my mother a... _a_ …” He took a painful swallow and looked away, his eyes burning with unshed tears.

Regis tensed. On the outside, his face remained the picture of cool composure, yet Bran instantly felt the white-hot revulsion just brimming under the calm façade.

“Not my fault your mother has such poor judgement, boy,” the man said in a drawl. “Same goes for you. Maybe if you’d just thought to stay where your kind belongs, then you wouldn’t have caused such a mess.” The man shook his head. “I remember what the Squirrels did in the war. They had a madness in them—a madness I tell you! I don’t want no elf-blooded brat anywhere near my own children.”

Regis’ eyes were as cold as two shards of onyx. “You would judge an entire civilization by the acts of a few desperate souls? You would ostracise and abuse good, normal people for such a flimsy reason? Is this the kind of moral you wish to pass down to your little ones?”

“I’m just doing what’s best for my family. I told you, I don’t want any trouble.”

“Oh. And to do so, you would gladly trample the right of nonhumans to have a safe and comfortable life. I understand.”

Frank and Denise’s father flared his teeth in an ugly grimace. “Why do you care?”

“I’m not what you would call, er, _fully human_ ,” Regis said, taking a slightly affected air. “In fact, not many Nordlings can boast of a purely human lineage. As little as one hundred years ago, interracial couplings were commonplace. Why sir, it’s very probable that you have a drop of elven blood in your veins as well.”

“How would you know?” Frank spoke up. “It’s not like you were there a hundred years ago!”

Regis tilted his head a bit and found the boy’s gaze. Immediately, Frank yelped and hid behind his father.

The man himself grew as red as a root. “Oi. You better take that back. I won’t be insulted in front of my children.”

“I am not looking to offend,” Regis said placidly. “I only seek to use the knowledge at my disposal to dispel deeply ingrained falsehoods.”

“You think you’re so smart, huh?” Frank and Denise’s father replied. “With all your fancy words and so-called ancient blood?” He spat at Regis’ feet. “Bugger you and your ilk. I won’t be buying from you ever again.”

A twinkle of amusement shone in Regis’ eyes. “What a pity,” he said. “Truly, I’m saddened.”

His interlocutor stepped closer. The top of the man’s head was mere inches from the tip of Regis’ nose now. “ _Why_ , you… if you don’t change your tone, then I’m gonna wipe that smirk off your face and—”

He never managed to finish his sentence. The man’s face slackened in an almost comical manner, his gaze becoming vacant as if he’d indulged a bit too much in that strange smelling liquor Regis liked to make. His legs buckled under him, and he toppled to the ground with a resounding _‘splat!’_ There was a moment of stupefied silence… which was then broken when the five bullies began to scream anew.

“A sudden and inexplicable bout of narcolepsy!” Regis announced amidst the chorus of wailings. “What a bizarre turn of events! Whatever shall we do?”

“ _Pa!_ ” Denise shrieked, while her brother shouted, “You killed him! Your killed our father, you freak!”

Regis examined the man’s pulse. “Of course I haven’t,” he said in the insolent tone of one much younger. “He’s simply asleep. Why, this is most peculiar. Perhaps your father is overworked. When he regains consciousness, do tell him to take better care of his health, will you, children?”

In response, Frank, Denise and their friends threw curses at him and scampered, leaving their father snoring and drooling in the dirt behind.

“A courageous lot, to be sure,” Regis commented.

“Is he…” Bran began, touching the sleeping man with one foot, “is he going to be alright?”

“Of course. He will wake with a terrible headache and nothing more. We should, however, move on before these rascals come back with reinforcements.” Regis laid a reassuring hand on Bran’s shoulder. “What about you, my boy? How are you feeling?”

Bran wanted nothing more than to lie and say he was perfectly fine, but his throat tightened, trapping the words before they could leave his lips. Instead, to his great embarrassment, his face crumpled, and great fat tears streaked his cheeks.

“I…” he blubbered. “I-I just want to go home…”

“O-Oh.” Again, Regis’ dignified features showed an atypical touch of worry. “I see. Let’s go find your mother, then.”

Bran managed a tiny nod. His shoulders were shaking with silent sobs. “I… I didn’t mean to make them mad, Regis, I-I swear. They just… they just…”

Regis went to one knee and opened his arms. With no hesitation, Bran accepted the unsaid invitation and buried his face in the crook of the barber-surgeon’s neck. In one fluid motion, Regis stood up, patting the boy’s back as the latter let the tears flow from his eyes.

“I know,” the vampire said. “I know you asked for none of this. You did nothing wrong.”

“Does it,” mumbled Bran, “does it get better? W-When you’re an adult and people laugh at you… d-does it hurt as much?”

Regis stayed silent for a while. When he finally answered, his voice was but a soft whisper. “I would say things do indeed get better, if only because you develop additional tools to deal with unpleasant business as you grow older.” His last words were followed by a smile—not the fake, closemouthed smile he’d shown so far, but a large, open grin that displayed all of his pointy teeth. “Additionally, as you gain in years, you will find yourself surrounded by people whose opinion you’ll value more than the insults and mocking laughter of bigoted strangers. Your mother and Geralt and all of my loved ones do not think that my teeth are ugly or frightening, so I do not care for their shape. The same goes for your ears, lad. Or at least, that’s what I’d like to believe.”

Bran gave a final hiccup, then rubbed his weary eyes. “Mm. If you say so,” he said almost sleepily. Regis was the smartest one in Bran’s family by a large margin; everything he’d said was probably true. “T-Thanks, Regis.”

“No need to thank me,” Regis said. “I am always willing to lend a helpful hand to those who need it.” He re-positioned the boy, so the latter was now perched on his shoulders. A peal of laughter escaped Bran’s mouth; other than Geralt, Regis was the best one for piggyback rides, since he was so tall. “Now, little kite, let’s get you back to your nest before that fearsome mother of yours levels the city in her search for you.”

And, without a glance back to the snoring man laying sprawled on the cobblestones, the two of them headed out of the alleyway and into the bustling streets of Novigrad.


	5. Auntie Angoulême

Bran's hazy memories did not do any justice to the beauty of Beauclair.

The boy felt a fluttering sort of happiness as they got closer to his hometown. The trip south had been mostly miserable, especially when they had to cross the border into Toussaint. Both Milva and Cahir had been struck with particularly nasty colds as they had started their trek across the snow-covered Toussaintois countryside. Bran’s mother could be short-tempered even at the best of times; with a stuffy nose and a perpetual headache, she proved to be an even more terrible traveling companion. Chilly winter winds and bouts of ice-cold rain had also dogged their every step, making what should have been a pleasant trip a rather hellish ordeal.

And so, when Bran spied the brightly coloured façades and roofs of Beauclair on the horizon, the boy had let out a deep sigh of relief.

Inside the city, Bran, Milva and Cahir headed for Auntie Angoulême’s place, where they would be staying for a few nights. The three of them would then join Geralt and the others at Corvo Bianco, the witcher’s Toussaintois estate, to celebrate Yule. As they made their way into the city, Bran felt his spirits rise. The rain had turned into a flurry of snowflakes that whipped around in the wind, covering the cobblestones of Beauclair in a blanket of white. There was a crisp freshness in the air, one that cleared Bran’s lungs and brought a bit of colour to his cheeks. The streets bustled with people full of infectious cheer. Bran was not the only one looking forward to the celebration of Yule, it seemed.

They arrived at their destination in the early evening. Auntie Angoulême’s place had not changed at all, Bran noted with some amusement. It was located not far from the marketplace, in the better part of town. Above the entrance, the words _‘The Gold Cat’_ were painted in bright colours. Bran smiled as memories came flooding back. So often Milva had let him stay with Angoulême while she’d gone to sell her meat and furs.  The girls of the Gold Cat would then spend their time doting on Bran, giving him slices of honey nut cake until it seemed his belly would soon burst. Milva had never let him stay past a certain hour, however. Back then, Bran had been too little to ask why.

Today, Bran finally had his answer.

The Gold Cat was a _bordello_.

Not that Bran knew exactly what it entailed, exactly. When he’d asked Cahir and Milva about it, the former had become unusually incoherent and flustered, and the latter had just threw her head back laughing, before grimacing as if she was about to drink something unpleasant. That had been their final answer. Once again, Bran was struck by how weird grown-ups could be.

Once they got inside, Bran was immediately crushed into a hug by Angoulême. Soon, high pitched squeals flared from around him, and the poor boy found himself being passed from one grasping pair of arms to another as Angoulême drew both a reluctant Milva and a red-faced Cahir into a tight embrace. Out of the corner of his eye, Bran managed to take a peek at his surroundings. The place was gaudier than he remembered, and it was loud—so, so very _loud_. Even though it was only the early evening, many of the tables were already occupied. The customers (all men, Bran noted) laughed and sang bawdy songs as they sipped their ales, their faces flushed from the effects of alcohol and good cheer, while scantily clad ladies snuggled up to them, giggling in a girlish way. Bran blushed, turning his gaze away.

Instead, he focused his sight on a sign that had been hung on the wall across the entrance. When he’d been younger, Bran had been unable to decipher the words written on the plank of wood, but now he could. _‘Respect_ , _’_ the sign simply said. _‘Learn it, use it_. _’_ He wondered what it was all about.

Bran could barely place a word as his auntie and the rest of the girls finally dragged him, Milva and Cahir to the kitchens, where the three of them were treated to a gladly received bowl of soup. Neither Milva nor Cahir ate much. The latter was still a little green around the gills, and it was evident he was fighting to make sure every spoonful he ingested stayed in his stomach. Bran’s mother was no better; after she nearly went face first into her bowl, Auntie sent them both to the room she’d prepared with a playful growl of, “Don’t throw up on the carpet on the way up, I’ve just had it cleaned.”

After Bran finished his soup, he followed Angoulême and some of her girls back to a cozy room filled with fancy-looking divans and richly embroidered cushions. The fire roared in the hearth, and Bran sunk back into his comfy seat of choice with a contented sigh—and a plate of freshly baked honey nut cake in his lap! Angoulême sat next to him and ruffled his hair, grinning.

“It’s good to see you, kid,” she said. “I bet your life’s gone dreadfully boring now that I’m not so often around, eh?”

Her words prompted a few chuckles from the other girls. Bran remembered their faces from his childhood, but not their names. His cheeks pinkened slightly from embarrassment, and he took a bit of cake before answering.

“I wouldn’t say that. There’s a lot of things happening. Cahir stayed with us all summer and through the fall too. He’s been teaching me how to fight, you know?” Angoulême lifted a brow, seemingly impressed. Bran ate another mouthful of cake, before continuing, “And I’ve started school. Well, Dandelion made me start school. He thought it was a good idea.”

Bran clammed up as the last words left his lips. He did not tell Angoulême how he’d skipped school for almost a month after those bullies had beaten him up in that alley in Novigrad. In fact, if Cahir and Regis hadn’t been there to coax him out of his fears, then Bran would have never settled foot in that sorry excuse for a city again.

Angoulême guffawed. “School? Oh, poor boy, your life really has taken a turn for the worst, hasn’t it? What’s that idiot dandy thinking, forcing you to stick your sorry arse on a wooden chair for hours at end?”

“It’s not all bad,” Bran said. “I like it, actually.”

“Is that so?” said one of Angoulême’s girls. She had heavily powdered her cheeks in order to hide her freckles. “Always wondered what it must be like, going to school.”

“’S boring,” a tall, tan-skinned girl added. “It’s useless, cramming up your head with stupid things to remember. It doesn’t help you with anything.”

“Well, I’ve been taking lessons on the side,” the youngest of the girls said. Her cheeks flushed when the other turned to look at her. “I figured it’d be good, y’know, to learn how to read… I bet it’d make my mama proud…”

Auntie Angoulême nodded, trying to put on an air of respectability and poise even though she was barely older than the girl who’d just spoken. “True. An’ learning that kind of fancy shite does make it harder for people to screw you over.”

“Do you know how to read, Auntie?” asked Bran.

Angoulême grabbed him into a headlock. Bran struggled to keep his plate of cake from slipping off his lap.

“Of course I do, stupid,” she said. “How else would I be running this place?” As Bran tried to wriggle out of her hold, she tightened her grip, smirking. “And why the hell are you still calling me _Auntie_ Angoulême? Ciri’s the same age as me, and I don’t hear you calling her Auntie Ciri.”

“I don’t know,” Bran managed between wheezes. “That’s just how it is.”

Angoulême finally let him go. “Your mum put you up to this, didn’t she? She must be trying to get to me through you, for all those times _I’ve_ called her auntie.”

Before Bran could answer, loud voices came from outside. Somebody—or, as it soon became apparent, _several_ somebodies—were rushing down the stairs and heading toward the room where Bran and the others were currently seated. Angoulême stiffened, her grin twisting in a scowl. The rest of the girls sent nervous glances to the open door.

Soon, two young women were hurrying within. One had eyes that were puffy and red from crying, and the other had wrapped a bedsheet over her shoulders, perhaps to hide the fact that part of her bodice seemed to have been ripped off. Angoulême got to her feet, spitting out a curse. Behind the two girls came running a pair of young men. Even from a few feet away, Bran could smell the stench of alcohol on them.

“Miss Angoulême!” said the first of the girl. “I-I…”

One of the boys—his vest was not buttoned up correctly, Bran noticed—draped a hand over her shoulders, startling her. “Sweetheart, what’s with the running? We were just getting started, after all…”

“We paid you to keep us company,” said the other youth. Something about his voice made the hair on the back of Bran’s neck stand up. “Not to bolt off the moment the fun begins.”

The second girl looked askance, disgust etched on every inch of her face. With a start, Bran noticed a hand-shaped bruise on her arm.

Angoulême marched over to them, crossing her arms over her chest. “This is a high-quality establishment,” she said. “We have one golden rule here. It’s put in clear view of all right at the entrance. You paid for the privilege of spending time with those lovely ladies. Seems to me you’ve lost this privilege. So get lost.”

The two girls managed to slip deeper inside the room, where they ran into the awaiting arms of their infuriated co-workers. Angoulême was left alone to face the two drunkards; she was a good head shorter than both of them.

“What’s that, wench?” said the second of the two young men, the one with the crazy eyes. “You don’t even know what happened. Maybe we’re the wronged party here.”

“Nah,” said Angoulême. “I’ve seen enough. So I’ll say it one more time… get your sorry arses out of here, _now_.”

Bran did not have the time to blink. The young man’s open palm struck Angoulême’s cheek, making her falter on her feet. Bran leaped off his seat, crying out his auntie’s name, while the Gold Cat girls gasped in dismay.

The second blow came more slowly; Angoulême ducked before launching herself forward, kneeing her assailant in the groin. The young man yowled in pain, his legs buckling from under his weight.  His companion, stuttering with confusion and hesitation, followed with a half-hearted offense of his own. Angoulême braced herself for the blow, and she stumbled backward when the attack connected. Blood trickled out of her mouth; she wiped it with one hand, grinning a humourless smile.

“Angoulême!” Bran exclaimed again.

The first of her adversaries had recovered, and he was limping forward with a menacing glint flashing in his eyes. Angoulême was too busy grappling with the other youth to notice his approach. Bran squeezed his eyes shut, filling his head with memories of Cahir’s lessons. Opening his eyes, he let out a (rather shaky) shout before aiming a kick at the legs of the man attacking his auntie. It was the diversion she needed; as the drunkard turned his attentions to Bran, spittle flying out of his angry mouth, Angoulême grabbed him, flinging him unceremoniously toward his companion. The two of them crashed into the opposite wall with a resounding _thud!_

“Auntie!” said Bran. “Are you alright?”

Angoulême sent him a peeved look. “That should be my line. What about you, kid?”

“I’m fine, but—”

“You _biiitch_ …” a murderous hiss interrupted Bran. The two young men looked admittedly a bit stunned, but their fury appeared to have increased tenfold. Bran yelped as he hid himself behind Angoulême.

Before the two drunkards could make their move, however, the sounds of two pairs of feet stomping in their direction came from the staircase leading up to the second floor. The young men froze in their tracks as two familiar figures irrupted in the hallway. Bran’s heart gave a happy jolt when he recognized his mother and Cahir. Milva’s face was flushed, and her teeth were bared. Cahir came wobbling after her, staring at the spectacle before him with a dazed, clueless look.

“What the hell’s going on?” growled Milva. She waved the broken handle of a broom in front of her as if it was some sort of weapon. “Who the _fuck_ is making that ruckus?”

“Great,” muttered the second of the young men, “another of these jumped-up whores.”

“Auntie!” Angoulême exclaimed, suddenly sounding ten years younger. “Fine timing, as always!”

“Mama!” Bran bolted toward his mother. “You have to help Auntie Angoulême! These guys… they’ve gone crazy!”

One of Milva’s eyes twitched. “Is that so…?” She sharply pushed Bran toward Cahir. “Take the boy back to our room. We’ll sort it out, Angoulême and me.”

“O-Of course,” said Cahir. “Let’s go, Bran.”

Bran’s heart hammered in his ribcage as they climbed up the stairs. Behind them, shouts of pain and rage filled the air, making the boy’s mouth go dry. When Bran was safely seated on the smallest bed in their shared room, Cahir turned on his heel and went back the way they came, saying that he had to go help the girls. Bran hugged his knees to his chest as he watched him leave. Still, not five minutes had passed when Cahir slumped back into the room. He seemed a bit disheveled, but not worse for wear.

“What happened?” said Bran. “Is everyone alright? Did anyone get hurt?”

Cahir shrugged. “Everyone is fine. Er, everyone important, that is.”

“Was about the two ladies who had been hurt? Are they alright too?”

“What…? Oh, yes.” Cahir scratched the back of his head in a sheepish manner. “They managed to land a hit or two as well. Angoulême is always mindful of her employees.”

“I’m glad,” Bran said. “I was worried…”

“There was no need,” replied Cahir. “Your mother and Angoulême, well… let’s just say they make a formidable team.”

From the first floor Bran heard a series of whooping cheers and the characteristically loud cackle of his auntie. The boy smiled mischievously.

“Good,” he said. “Those jerks deserved it. They made me drop my plate of cake. Auntie Angoulême had made it just for me, you know?” And Bran could not forgive the waste of such a good piece of cake.


	6. Dad Geralt

Corvo Bianco was even bigger than Bran remembered.

He’d been at the witcher’s new lavish domain only once, when they had all celebrated Yule last year. Apparently, the estate had been gifted to Geralt as payment for a job. When Bran had pressed his mother for details, she’d clammed up and pursed her mouth in distaste instead.

Bran had not asked her again. Indeed, he did not want another sordid family secret to sneak into his nightmares. For the past month or so, his nights had thankfully stopped being haunted by the scraping laughter of the children who had tormented him in Novigrad. Still, sometimes a large, looming figure with features obscured by shadows would still creep into Bran’s dreams; in his hands, the man would hold a finely crafted bow and arrows dipped with blood— _human_ blood. Bran had not told his mother about these nightly terrors. He feared what truth she might give him far more that the unknown killer who disrupted his sleep so often.

The servants at Corvo Bianco welcomed Milva, Cahir, Angoulême and Bran with open arms when their little party of four arrived from Beauclair. Marlene, the gentle old lady who managed the kitchens, even greeted Bran with a platter of homemade cookies. Bran could not believe his eyes at the sight of the delicious pastries. She remembered him, even though they had met only last year. Blushing, Bran thanked Marlene with a quick hug. The old woman patted his head, and when Bran went to join his mother he was sure he’d seen tears in her eyes.

After dropping their luggage at the room they would all share, Milva and Cahir quickly went to help the servants and workers with the last of the preparations. A large pavilion had been set near the main gate leading to the estate. Colourful lanterns had been hung here and there, casting a light that pierced the settling gloom. Bran asked everyone he could meet if they needed help. He carried baskets of fresh fruits and meat pies for the better part of the evening, earning himself smiles and chuckles from the adults.

By then, several new guests were making their appearance. Regis strolled in first; Bran nearly chucked out the vegetables he’d been carrying in his haste to go and hug him. Dettlaff silently followed after the barber-surgeon like a shadow. While Regis went to offer his greetings to the master of the estate (his attempt was in vain—Geralt could not be found, despite all of his efforts), the blue-eyed vampire remained behind, standing in the spot where his friend had left him with an expression that could almost be called clueless. Finally, Milva took pity on poor Dettlaff and ordered him to cart around some pastries. He followed her command without a word of protest; still, the other workers gave Dettlaff a wide berth as he went back and forth between the kitchens and the tables that had set under the pavilion.

Dandelion, Ciri and Zoltan arrived together in a flash of green light, severely startling Geralt’s poor majordomo, Basil-Barnabas. The moment the bard let go of the witcheress’ hand, he staggered forward, his face going a delicate shade of green. Bran hopped over to him, grinning and ready to embrace him.

“N-No,” Dandelion managed between wheezes, “stay a-away, Bran, I think I’m going to be—” Thankfully, the ever-helpful Basil-Barnabas had gone past his fright, and he rushed to the bard’s side to hand him a bucket. Bran winced and squeezed his eyes shut as the poet retched copiously inside the wooden pail.

Zoltan burst into loud laughter, but Ciri only patted Dandelion’s back. “Sorry. The people who travel with me usually have a better experience.”

Shaking, Dandelion handed the bucket over to B.B. The latter sent a look of utter disdain to the poet before making himself scarce.

“G-Good thing P-Priscilla didn’t come with me,” Dandelion said. “She’s got enough on her plate with morning sickness…”

“I wouldn’t be keen on seeing the effects of my portals on pregnant women anyway,” Ciri replied. She would have said more, but Bran chose this moment to rush into her arms. “Oof! Why, you scamp, you nearly knocked me over!”

“Sorry!” Bran said, not apologetic at all. “I’m so glad to see you, Ciri!”

She ruffled his hair. “Me too, little brother. You’ve gotten pretty strong! Where did you get all these muscles?”

Dandelion managed a smile “T-The spitting image of me, isn't he? The lad inherited my heroic spirit, didn’t you know?”

Ciri scrunched up her nose at him. “I see. I’ll have to ask Priscilla about your training regimen. Might be fun to see how you’d fare in a sparring match.”

“Hah!” said Zoltan. “Can he even lift a sword with those puny arms of his? I doubt it!”

“No,” said Bran, unknowingly saving Dandelion from what would have been a painfully embarrassing moment, “it’s Cahir who’s been training me. I don’t think I’m that good, but at least it’s fun.”

At the mention of Cahir, Ciri made a strange face for a fleeting moment. Then, her grin was back. “Is that so? I’ll have to assess your skills, then.”

Bran’s eyes were full of stars. “You would train with me? Really?”

“You should learn from as many teachers as possible. That way, you’ll be able to adapt your style to a large number of situations.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” said Bran. “Thanks for the offer, Ciri!” He hugged her again.

“So, Ciri gets a warm welcome, but me and the bard, we don’t get so much as a hello?” said Zoltan. “Who’s looking to your education, lad?” Laughing, he elbowed Dandelion in the ribs. The latter rolled his eyes.

“I’m happy to see the two of you, too,” Bran said sheepishly. “It’s just that I hadn’t seen Ciri in ages!”

“Nah, it’s all good,” said the dwarf. “Between a pair of grumpy old farts and a fair little lady who knows how to handle herself in a fight, I know what choice I’d make too.”

“Old, feh,” said Dandelion. “I am not old. I have simply matured, like fine wine.”

“How’s Priscilla?” asked Bran. “Did you choose a name for the baby yet?”

Dandelion’s eyes lit up. “Oh, my Callonetta is as fine as ever! And we were thinking Jessamine for a girl, you know, after the flower—”

“Nothing screams narcissism so much as naming your child after another damn yellow flower,” muttered Zoltan. “Why not Buttercup, if you’re willing to be so transparent?”

“Jessamine Essi Pankratz,” said Dandelion, pointedly ignoring Zoltan’s barb. “Yes, a lovely name for a lovely little girl.”

The two of them dissolved into bickering not long afterward, to Bran and Ciri’s great amusement.

Their little group were not the only ones to make such a grand entrance. A little bit before the evening feast began, the air next to the main gate crackled with energy as a bright golden light ripped a hole into the empty space. Two women walked out of the portal, arms linked together. One had a thick tangle of black tresses trailing behind her; her cool violet surveyed her surroundings like a queen would regard the land she ruled. The other was more petite, with red hair coiled at the nape of her neck and a friendly face covered with freckles.

The hair at the back of Bran’s neck stood on end, as if he’d received a slight electric shock. He shook his head, startled. The magical portal closed, and the strange feeling that had been crawling under Bran’s skin evaporated as well. He put down the basket of apples he’d been carrying, frowning and rubbing his eyes. That was bizarre.

The two ladies strolled into Corvo Bianco with their heads held high, unmindful of the stares of the people who surrounded them. Now that they were closer, Bran could recognize the pair. Lady Yennefer was Geralt’s beloved, and Lady Triss was a close friend of the witcher and his raven-haired lover. Bran had met them only a handful of times. As always, something in their very bearing rendered him mute with shyness. The two sorceresses looked like they had just stepped out of one of Dandelion’s courtly ballads, or rather, out of a fairytale.

Said bard went out to them with extended arms. Yennefer coolly kissed Dandelion on both cheek, but Triss offered him a warm embrace. However, when Ciri called out the black-haired sorceress’ name, a smile as bright as dawn lit up Yennefer’s features. The witcheress ran up to her adopted mother, and the two of them hugged tightly, laughing and crying tears of joy.

When Ciri let go of her, Yennefer asked, “Where is that witcher father of yours? Do I have to teach him manners even after all these years? He must know how impolite it is for the master of an estate to ignore proper greeting etiquette.”

“Oh,” said Ciri, “he’s not here actually. He’s gone to escort some very important guests back to Corvo Bianco.”

“Guests, you say?” said Triss. “Who might it be?”

Ciri glanced furtively behind her. Bran noticed with some surprise that she had been looking at Cahir. “It’s kind of complicated. You’ll see when they arrive.”

And so the festivities began without the elusive owner of Corvo Bianco lurking somewhere on the premises, as was his wont. A large bonfire was lit by the pavilion, bringing a bit of warmth to all who braved the chill winter evening. After stuffing his mouth with about anything edible he could find (and drinking a hint of honeyed cider at Dandelion and Zoltan’s prodding), Bran bounced toward a group of dancers circling the pyre. A group of musicians were playing a lively tune, and the boy hopped on his feet to their frantic rhythm with much gusto. To Bran’s left, Ciri was holding his hand tightly, loudly singing along the music. To his right, Cahir was humming the lyrics, a dazed little smile playing along the edges of his lips.

A great cheer erupted from the crowd gathered under the pavilion. Bran turned to look behind him and found with much joy that Geralt was riding the path to the main gate of the estate. Behind him was a small wheelbarrow pulled by two horses.

The carriage slowed to a stop as it approached Corvo Bianco. Geralt also eased his mare Roach to a halt. He climbed down his horse to help out the passengers of the wheelbarrow. One was an elderly lady with a stooped back and grey hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her companions were two black-haired women in their mid to late thirties.

Next to Bran, someone sharply drew a breath in surprise.

“Gan yr haul mawr...” whispered Cahir. He let go of Bran’s hand and left the circle of dancers, advancing toward the three women with hesitant steps. “Mam... Anwen, Delyth... ni all fod yn...”

“Brawd bach!” one of the women answered, and she and her companions hiked up their skirts to dash toward Cahir. Soon, the knight was crushed into a three-way hug by the ladies.

“Fy mab bach!” the old woman sobbed. “Oh, Cahir!”

Bran could feel his mouth dangling open. “Wait… are those ladies Cahir’s family?” He looked at Ciri, waiting for confirmation.

“Yes,” replied the witcheress. “That’s his mother and two of his elder sisters. Cahir would never talk about his past, so I asked Geralt about it one day. I found it silly that they had not seen each other for so long. I knew Cahir can’t go back to Nilfgaard, so it was evident that they had to come up north instead.”

“But why did you send Geralt to get them? With your powers, going to Nilfgaard would be easy!”

Ciri grimaced. “Oh, it would be. Let’s just say that I… well, that I can’t be possibly seen in Nilfgaard for many reasons.”

“I see,” said Bran. It would be rude to pry further on the subject, he thought. Instead, he focused his attentions on the touching reunion taking place. Tears streaked down Cahir’s cheeks. Something light and airy bubbled in the pit of Bran’s stomach at the sight of such joy. “It’s really nice of you, Ciri. You’re always so thoughtful!”

Ciri gave him a playful pat on the head. “Always with the compliments, are you?”

Bran blushed, and he evaded her hand as she tried to mess up his hair. Again, he lost himself into the throng of dancers. The musicians had started another song, aided by Dandelion on his lute. Bran gleefully went from partner to partner—his mother, old Marlene, even Lady Triss earned the dubious honour of having their toes squashed by him. Ciri, for her part, had gone to sit with Cahir and his family. Cahir’s mother was seated next to her, and she grasped the witcheress’ arm tightly, as if they had known each other for all of their lives.

Bran’s head was beginning to swim. Perhaps it was the cider finally getting to him. Slowly, the boy extricated himself from his latest partner’s hold (it happened to be Angoulême, stinking of cheap wine and braying with laughter like a dunce), heading out of the now thickening crowd. On a whim, Bran decided to look for Geralt; it had been so long since he'd spoken with him. Soon, the boy found his quarry. Geralt was leaning on the short wall encircling his propriety, still and silent as a statue.

Bran plopped down next to him, on a wooden seat covered by a thin blanket of snow. From their vantage spot, he and Geralt could see the dancers twirling and laughing by the bonfire. Among them, the most graceful and skillful were definitely Regis and Yennefer. The vampire and the sorceress seemed to hover above the ground as they waltzed under the stars. Geralt’s eyes was fixed on the pair, as was another familiar gaze. Also hidden in the shadows, Dettlaff spied on Regis’ every move with a mournful expression. Yennefer and Regis appeared to be amused by the keen attention given by their audience of two. They exchanged smiles and whispered secrets, and often Yennefer would chuckle softly to herself.

“Are you going to ask Lady Yennefer for a dance?” Bran finally asked Geralt. “I’m sure she would love it.”

“Hmm,” replied Geralt. “I might. But I’m not the most talented partner she could find.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. In Dandelion’s stories, ladies always love to dance.”

There was a snort from the witcher. “Dandelion’s stories are one thing. Flesh and blood women are another.” He smirked. “If there’s one thing I can teach you, it’s to ignore everything Dandelion tells you about women. It’ll save you some grief.”

“What is there to learn about women?” a puzzled Bran asked. “They don’t seem any different from men to me. You just have to treat people right, regardless of what they are. Or at least, that’s what I gathered.”

Geralt bounced his eyebrows. “Wise beyond your years, I see. You didn’t get that from Dandelion. Might be something you picked up from Regis, then. Or even Cahir.”

Bran frowned. “I don’t think so.” Then, with more bitterness than he would have wanted, he added under his breath, “None of them are my real father, after all.”

A slight crease formed between Geralt’s brows. “Does that change anything?”

Bran flushed. He hadn’t meant for Geralt to hear that particular bit. “Maybe,” he mumbled. “I don’t know anything about him. My real father, I mean. I might be like him, you know?”

Geralt did not answer. Bran wrung his hands together and said, with a voice that was shakier than he would have wanted, “Sometimes, I just wonder if my mother had said something about him to you or the others. I’m starting to think…” Bran stopped, his hands clenching into fists. “Well, I’m worried that he was one of those Scoy—Scoy—er, y’know, one of those _Squirrels_ …”

“Scoia’tael,” said Geralt. “They were called the Scoia’tael.”

Bran gave a small nod. “So, was he? Was my dad a Scoia’tael?”

“What makes you say that? Not all elves were Scoia’tael, and not all Scoia’tael were elves.”

 _Yes_ , Bran thought spitefully, _but people always forget that, don't they?_ “I know,” the boy muttered. “But it’s possible, isn’t it? I was born around the time all these Squirrels were making trouble, right? My mother was living with the dryads in Brokilon back then. And I heard people saying the Squirrels used to hide in those woods. Maybe she could have met one of them and, well…” Bran went silent, cheeks flaring from embarrassment.

“Why is it so important that you know whether or not your father was part of the Scoia’tael?” asked Geralt. “Would that change anything?”

“Of course it would!” Bran said, a bit forcefully. His eyes burned with unshed tears. The boy bit down his lip so he would not cry in front of Geralt. “Everybody hated the Squirrels! They did all sort of bad things! Even now, people get all scared when they talk about it.”

“Hmm,” was all Geralt said. “I see.” His strange eyes betrayed no hint of emotion.

Bran looked at his feet, miserable. “If I was the son of a Scoia’tael, then I’m sure people would hate me. I’m sure they’d be scared. Because that would make me the son of a murderer, wouldn’t it? And what would that make me?”

“It wouldn’t make you anything,” answered the witcher.

Bran snapped his gaze back to Geralt, his scowl deepening. “How can you be so sure?”

Geralt did not say anything for a while. Then, he sat down next to Bran and said, his features softening up slightly, “Did Ciri ever tell you about her father?”

“No.” Bran had not thought about Ciri’s birth family again, especially after the conversation he had shared with Cahir a few months ago. In his mind, it was just easier to pretend that her parents were Geralt and Yennefer. “What about him? Did he do something bad?”

A wry grin tugged at one end of Geralt’s mouth. “That would be an understatement. Her father had a hand in the death of the rest of her family. And he’s directly responsible the slaughter of countless more innocent people. Without him, the wars with Nilfgaard might never have happened.”

Bran stared at him, suddenly speechless. He had learned from Cahir that Ciri’s family had been murdered in the massacre at Cintra, but he hadn’t known that particular (and horror-inducing) detail.

“She is not too fond of him, as you might imagine,” Geralt said. “She shed no tears when one of his schemes finally got him killed. She might have been glad, even.”

“Oh,” Bran said, “I didn’t know.” It was horrible to think that someone as funny and bright as Ciri might have pleased by the death of someone. Bran’s stomach twisted painfully at the thought.

“So,” continued Geralt, “do you think less of her, now? Do you think being her father’s daughter makes her a bad person?”

“No! Of course not!” Bran’s eyes then widened. “Oh! I think I understand your point, now. I guess it was rather silly, wasn’t it? Me being afraid and all.”

“No,” said the witcher. He draped one arm around Bran’s shoulders. “I don’t think so.”

Bran mustered a weak smile. “Thank you, Geralt. For listening. I didn’t want to bother my mother with this. I mean, it must be painful for her, to remember all the things that happened during the war. It must have been so horrible…”

“I’m sure she would be more pained to learn that you keep your fears hidden from her,” a feminine voice said. Soon, Yennefer had strolled up to them, her violet eyes alight with some sort of mischief. “A good mother would rather know about her child’s worries, even she is hurt by what she learns.”

Now, Bran’s face was red-hot from bashfulness. He could only manage to squeak, “G-Good evening, Lady Yennefer.”

“Good evening, Branwyn,” replied Yennefer. She looked at Geralt, lifting a brow. “That was rather sweet of you, witcher.”

Geralt responded with a nonchalant shrug.

“Must be all that wine going to your head,” Yennefer added. “If you keep this up, you might start to get pudgy as well as soft-hearted. That would make it even quainter.”

Geralt only stared at her from under furrowed brows, saying nothing.

“You might even be the first witcher to die in his bed. Still…” Briefly, Yennefer glanced to the side and she tucked a lock of raven hair behind one ear. “It would not be so bad, I think. I’d prefer that to the alternative.”

Again, Geralt’s mouth quirked into a half-smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

“The alternative?” asked Bran. “What do you mean?”

The two adults exchanged a look and said nothing. Bran stifled a sigh, knowing full well they would not tell him.

“So,” Yennefer said, “I have been told you wished to talk to me, Branwyn?”

“W-What?” replied Bran. “No, I don’t think so…”

Yennefer’s eyes crinkled into a subtle smile. “Oh, I think you do. A certain musically-inclined friend of ours told me you wish to learn magic. I could help, if that’s what you desire.”

If he could have burrowed ten feet into the ground, Bran would have done it. “T-That’s just a silly dream I had when I was a little kid. I know I can’t become a mage. Mages are special, and I’m just… _me_. I’m just Bran, the half-elf from Alness. I’m no one important.”

Something sad settled on Yennefer’s striking features. “Well, I knew of a girl much like you. She was a quadroon from the poorest quarters of Vengerberg. She’d been told she was no one important. Still, when a powerful sorceress took her under her wing, she was gifted with the chance to learn the magical arts.”

“Really? What happened to her?”

“She became a sorceress as well. And thus she began a new life.”

Bran considered what she had said for a moment. “Well, I like my old life just fine, actually. It’s a bit boring, sure, but I’m happy.”

Yennefer and Geralt shared another glance filled with humour. “Oh, I’m sure it’s possible to keep a mundane and boring life, even if you become a mage,” said the sorceress. “Just stay away from djinns and children of prophecy. And witchers, of course.”

Bran looked at Geralt. The latter shrugged his shoulders again. “Too late for that,” the witcher replied.

“What’s so bad about witchers?” Bran added, a bit peeved on Geralt’s behalf.

“Hand me a piece of paper and a quill, and I’ll draw you a list,” said Yennefer. Still, she added, “However you’ll soon find that the good outweighs the bad. Or perhaps I find it so because I happen to have something of a bias. Perhaps in fact Geralt is not so representative of his profession.”

To his embarrassment, Bran found that he could only stare dumbly at her. Geralt sighed. “Yen, stop rambling. You’ll bore him to death.”

Yennefer attempted to give him a light swat behind the head, but the witcher dodged her attack with ease. “Rambling, you say?” she quipped.

“Must be a sign of old age. Vesemir started to act the same in his later years.”

Bran’s cheeks had turned scarlet in mortification. Suddenly, he felt as if he was intruding on something very private.

“Oh, look, you’ve embarrassed the boy,” said Yennefer. “Keep your disparaging comments to yourself, witcher. You’ll make a poor role model otherwise.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Geralt said, words dripping with sarcasm.

Yennefer rolled her eyes heavenward in response. Then, she crouched to Bran’s level and said, “And so, what will it be? Would you like to see if you could learn magic, Branwyn?”

Bran evaded her scrutiny, feeling the heat pooling up in his cheeks again. In the distance, Dandelion met his gaze, raising his lute in a flourish as if to send his tacit support. From their seat under the pavilion, Cahir and Ciri waved at him (the former's cheeks were a little flushed, Bran noticed). Not far away, Regis was dragging an unresponsive (and slightly fearful-looking) Dettlaff toward the group of dancers; the barber-surgeon stopped in his tracks for a moment to direct a kind, toothy smile to Bran. Meanwhile, Angoulême had gone to fetch herself another glass of wine. When she felt Bran’s gaze on her, she grinned at him and downed her drink in one go.

And of course, Bran sought his mother among all of this assembly. Milva raised an inquisitive eyebrow when she realized Bran was looking at her, before noticing to whom her son was talking. Then, she nodded—the gesture had been strangely grave, sad even. Still, her eyes showed nothing but pride.

Bran finally turned his attentions back to Yennefer’s violet gaze.

“Yes,” he said, feeling the warmth of Geralt’s arm around his shoulder and taking strength in it. “I think I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Omg, it's done! If you have anything to say about this mushy little piece of sappiness, feel free! Thanks for reading!
> 
> (...so who actually wins 'best dad' among all the dads shown here? i'd be curious to know what you guys think...)


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